Tipped Back To Face The Sky
by fallingangelsandstars
Summary: Dean is in Hell, and they're both trying to cope. But they're falling apart. And each day, it gets harder not to lose faith.


**A/N: Trigger warnings for torture and alcohol. Dean's in Hell, and the boys are trying to find a way to cope.**

* * *

Dean's eyes flicker open. The blood in his head is pounding, and his muscles are sore and aching.

He can hear screaming.

So many screams, violent, piercing the air, whipping through it like a knife. He tries to turn his head, but the sudden movement causes a wave of nausea, and he suddenly realises that his body feels too tight, stretched, and it _hurts. _And Dean can feel the sharp spikes cutting through his flesh, holding him in place. He can't move, doesn't dare to. The sharp flares of pain that pulse through his body pull a low, shuddering groan from him, and his head slumps forward.

He can feel hot metal strands running through his body. One pierces the place where his heart should be, and with each non-existent heartbeat what feels like acid runs through the blood trickling through his veins, burning, the flames inside him scorching. He screams, joining the countless others whose noise suddenly seems too much, _too much, _and he's begging for the sounds to stop.

He screams for Sam. Screams for Sam to save him, help him, make everything _stop._

This goes on for a time length that seems endless. Sometimes he sees clouds of black smoke that drift throughout the red haze that has become Dean's world, and adrenaline lifts the heavy veil of pain that has descended upon him. His whole body will surge forward, eager to fight, and the rack will pull him back, sending a searing, white-hot pain that leaves him gasping and breathless.

They will watch this ordeal, laughing, chilling, high-pitched sounds that send cold trickles of fear down his spine. And they will descend upon him, their leering, cold, merciless eyes boring into him, their hands eager to tear into skin, muscle, flesh. The crowd of demons will rip him apart, hands grinding bone to dust, tearing cartilage and ligaments and tendons, pulling him to shreds.

And the small part of Dean's mind that remains untouched by the pain tries to convince him that this isn't real, that everything is just in his mind, a hallucination. But the pain overwhelms every sense he has, and his breathing quickens, heart racing as another demon will steal his attention while the rest watch on. And their true forms will merge into the clouds of smoke, and reappear behind him. They rip off his eyelids, so that he gets no escape from the sights laid out before him.

And they sink their teeth into him, tearing chunks of flesh from his bones, blood pouring and the scent is unbearable, sickly sweet, rotting and cloying.

He wishes he would pass out, let the darkness take him. But Hell is not kind.

And there are white flashes, the light constant. They haven't stopped since the beginning, sporadic and intense. And Dean is thankful for them; they light up the darkness, dispelling the demons. But they also let him see everything in high detail. And he sees the other souls lined up, being carved, tortured.

When he is healed, when he closes his eyes, their faces, broken and desperate, haunt him.

* * *

The waves of guilt are relentless, driving, so powerful he can barely breathe. He can feel the desperation rising, and tries to delay the inevitable panic attack. But he can't. So he curls up, pulling his long legs in and tucking them to his chest, arms wrapped around them as he gasps, shaking violently. He buries his face in knees, letting the dizziness wrap around him.

Even now, he can feel the faint burn in his blood, and can see Ruby's leering face in his mind. That twisted smile, whose darkness he can no longer see. It is overwhelming, the knowledge of what he will do, and he is convinced his heart has stopped somewhere between then and now. Between black and white. Between right and wrong.

But in the corner of his eye, he sees the amber liquid, and the first swallow burns the back of his throat. But its warmth is welcoming, sweet, and it runs through him like fire. The same affect the demon blood has on him.

But there is none of that strength here. He feels pathetic, weak, and another wave of grief washes over him. There are so many things he wishes he had done, wishes he had thought to do. And Dean will be the one link he never knew he missed until he was there, whole and warm and solid, comfort and safety radiating from him.

Love is a petty, shallow emotion. You can tell someone you love them until you're blue in the face, but it doesn't mean they'll believe you.

It doesn't mean that you can have what you can't want. Shouldn't want. Need to want. Without that, you'll lose yourself, and the edges of the world will crackle and burn like paper, the edges curling in, blackening, and enveloped in a grey haze of smoke.

It hides everything from you. Rationality disappears. All that matters is survival.

Sam needed him so much. And he didn't know that. Didn't know that he was loved, and safe, and the only one who's ever meant more than love to Sam. Meant more than anything.

And never telling Dean.

It'll be the one thing Sam will never forgive himself for.

So Sam drains the bottle, mesmerised by the sounds of the whiskey hitting the sides of the glass. He watches it, watches as it settles, then shakes it again. He'll tip it, drink it, use the childish distraction to take his mind off Dean. And he waits for the effects to take over. Waits for his movements to become jerky and unsure, his words slurring. Then he collapses on the bed, and sleep will come for him. Slowly, making its way without any rush. But it will come.

He lets the weariness in his limbs drag him down. And he dreams of Dean.

* * *

_Green eyes meet his. Freckles that run over sun-kissed skin, tipped back to face the sky. Mouthing the words that were repeated to him every night, until he began to believe them._

_"__Angels are watching over you, Sammy."_

_A smile so bright it shone in the dark. Long, slender fingers tracing words in the sand, until they were imprinted in his memory._

_"__I'll always be there. Trust me."_

_Arms strong as they lift him up, ones that sheltered and harmed and protected and wounded. Shielding a piece of paper from him, until they were lifted, and it was held up to face him._

_"__I'm here, Sam."_

_And he watched over him until he couldn't. And he protected him until he couldn't. And he was there. Until he wasn't._

* * *

**Secondary A/N: ****Dedicated to precious-passenger for reading through and helping me get this right, and for being there every time I needed her. Couldn't have done it without you. So much love. **

**Also for castielsbee, who gave me the idea, and has been so kind, and left a smile on my face. **

**And LilyBolt, for listening to me and enduring my constant PMs, and constantly making my day.**

**My first (proper) fanfic, so reviews and favourites and follows are always welcome! And requests for one shots or any piece you want written. **


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